Two Sides of The Same Coin
by coolcox14
Summary: It's London, it's raining, and House and Wilson are in town for a medical conference. They could be staying with anyone - but the flat they're lodging in just happens to be a 221B, the home of a certain crime-solving duo... sparks will fly!
1. Chapter 1: Rain and black cabs

"Well this looks delightful. Really spiffing, eh wot? Absolutely..."

"House, I'm serious now, if you don't stop speaking in that abysmal attempt at a British accent I'm going to ram that cane right up your –"

"Hey hey hey, there's no need to be obscene! There are ladies present."

"Like who?"

"Well my cane, _obviously_. She's called Daphne."

"...this has been waaaay too long a day".

The pair of doctors was wedged together in the back of a cab, suitcases piled high around them. Twenty straight hours of travelling had clearly taken their toll: bleak shadows of stubble lurked at their jaw lines, deep lines etched around their eyes that looked dark enough to have been drawn on with pen. Dr James Wilson was sat on the left, a bulging travel case perched perilously on his lap. There was an unmistakable weariness in his demeanour, the type which comes only with the soul-destroying monotony of long haul air travel; the type made indescribably worse by having to listen to the smart aleck comments of a certain maverick diagnostician for the entire journey. Dr Gregory House seemed himself in good form, apparently still relishing the opportunity to irritate his companion for no reason other than his own entertainment; he opened his mouth once again to speak, only switching back to his own American accent mid-sentence after an irate interjection from Wilson, accompanied by a swift jab to the arm.

"I say, are we – ow!"

"For the love of God, House, are you actually five years old? Enough with the stupid voice!"

"You didn't see me going around thumping Chase, and he really does have a stupid voice."

"I think that's a little different. It's not really his fault."

"Anyway, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, how much further is it?"

"I'm not sure..." Wilson leant forward, tapping on the glass to catch the cabbie's attention. "Um, excuse me, how much further to Baker Street?"

* * *

"Do I have to make inane conversation about the weather with them?"

"Well, I suppose not..."

"Do I have to acknowledge their presence?"

"It would be probably be polite."

"Do I have to pretend to be interested in pictures of their cats?"

"No, I don't think... hang on a minute, why would they show you pictures of their cats? They probably don't even _own_ any cats –"

"It's what you people _do_, isn't it? Exchange photos, make mindless small-talk... it's all so tedious. I don't know why I agreed to this, John."

"Sherlock, it's two lodgers. Two completely independent, adult lodgers. And it's only for a fortnight. The way you're whining you'd think we were adopting a family..."

John Watson set the tray down on the table by the armchair; the man who was stood at the window did not stir, continuing to gaze out, a slight frown lacing his aloof features. John perched on the edge of the armchair and regarded his friend – a familiar mixture of exasperation and faint adulation clear on his face. He reached for the newspaper and began to read it; or at least, he made a pretence of reading it, for periodically his eyes would flicker upwards towards the figure silhouetted against the artificial glow of the street lamps outside.

"John, if you have something to say, please say it. There's no point in putting on this little facade for my benefit."

"But I –"

"You're sitting unnaturally still, you haven't turned the page in at least four minutes now, and it's obvious from the angle of your head that you aren't actually reading it." Sherlock spun around, taking a bounding step forward and fixed John with a sharp glare, the words tumbling from his mouth with distinctive frequency and intensity. John sighed and put down the newspaper.

"Well, I just think it's really a good thing that we're taking these lodgers –"

" – good if you think that the presence of two imbecilic Americans to get in the way is something to celebrate. _American_, why American? –" Sherlock muttered darkly;

" – and I think it would be nice if you could try and be a little less –"

" – intimidatingly brilliant?"

" – of a prick." Sherlock whipped back so he was again facing the window, his arrestingly blue eyes blazing, but a barely discernable smirk twitching at the corners of his lips.

"I'll just be myself, then."


	2. Chapter 2: Welcome to 221B

**Hey, cheers to anyone actually reading this :-) More chapters to come, any reviews greatly appreciated. **

* * *

As the cab sped away to navigate the grey labyrinth of London's street, it began to rain; great fat droplets of water plunged down from the darkness, exploding onto the pavement like a barrage of shells. House pulled up his collar and gazed upward, scowling.

"Look, it's raining. Remember someone warned us it was going to rain all the time in London? Who was that guy? He sure knew what he was talking about. What was his name – Cottage? Bungalow? Manor? Oh wait, I've got it; House."

"It rains in New Jersey too," Wilson sighed, squinting down the street through the haze of water. "Here, I think this is it." He walked down to a black door beside a sandwich shop; the gold lettering glinted with the light from the streetlights – 221B. House came to stand next to him; for a moment, they hovered uncertainly.

"Well, we may as well go in. I hear in England it's traditional to greet guests with strippers. Or maybe I dreamt that. Only one way to find out." Leaning across Wilson, House pressed the doorbell with his cane. After a moment, the sound of someone descending the stairs could be heard; with a rattle, the door swung open.

The man stood on the threshold looked exceedingly ordinary, almost arrestingly so. Average height, average build, average hair, average clothes – staunchly mundane, he exuded a certain air of unflustered level-headedness. It was perhaps his smile which was his most noticeable feature: affable and long-suffering, it somehow seemed to assure fierce loyalty – this seemed a man you could rely on. Hurriedly he stepped back from the door.

"Hello! Oh here, come in, come in, out of the rain; you're drenched, here I'll help with them..." He motioned inwards, stepping forward himself to help with the pile of suitcases on the doorstep. "I'm John, John Watson; you must be Dr Wilson, we spoke on the phone –" Closing the door behind the newcomers and setting their luggage down, he reached over to shake Wilson's hand; his grip was surprisingly strong.

"Nice to finally meet you, Dr Watson –"

"John, please."

"– and this is my colleague, Dr Gregory House." House stepped forward, running a hand through his short grey hair as he cast a wide eye around the hallway.

"So, London. Is it always this miserable?" Behind him, Wilson made as if to speak, before apparently thinking better of it and merely rolling his eyes in exasperation. John cocked his head slightly, his expression caught between bemusement and amusement; an almost imperceptible smile flickered like a candle in the wind, before it was distinguished.

"I might ask the same question about you?" House cracked into a wicked grin, pretending to tip an imaginary hat to John, before turning back to Wilson.

"Adorable accents _and_ smart comebacks. Jeez, no wonder these guys had an empire." John shrugged, a look of faint puzzlement still on his face.

"Well, and we make good tea. Anyway, come this way, I'll show you your rooms; and you can meet Sherlock, of course, although I'm not sure you'll want to..."

The trio made their way up the stairs, emerging into a cluttered space filled with particular artefacts - a skull on the mantelpiece, a glass chemistry set contentedly bubbling in the corner, a revolver sprawled on the desk – the dark walls generating a hushed intensity, an air of mystery. This was an atmosphere greatly accentuated by the presence of the tall, slender man who was gazing out into the street; he didn't turn to greet the arrivals.

"Well, this is the living room, and this," John said, gesturing across the room, "is Mr Sherlock Holmes, my good friend and flatmate. Sherlock, meet Drs Wilson and House, our new tenants." Sherlock took a deep breath, exhaling deliberately as he stepped back from the window to survey the doctors on the other side of the room. Pallid and elegantly gaunt, there was something almost ghostly about the detective, with his shining pale cheeks and eerie air of omniscience. Yet one could hardly describe him as ethereal; his eyes a shocking cobalt, they were nothing short of stunning, somehow managing to be simultaneously icily calculating and electrically alluring – as Sherlock examined the doctors they crackled with erudite restlessness. Although the rest of his face was carefully arranged to be inscrutable, his eyes were portholes, offering an ephemeral glimpse into the constantly whirring machinery of his mind. Jutting cheekbones gave him a look of graceful arrogance, the dark curls which sat loosely on his head reminiscent of a roman emperor.

"Hello, Mr Holmes– "

"You will not disturb me when I'm thinking about a case, you will not ask stupid, obvious questions about what I'm doing, you will not enquire about why there are frozen fingers in the salad drawer of the fridge, you will not complain if I play my violin at 3am, you will not attempt to make small-talk with me or expect me to be interested in your tedious lives, and you will under no circumstances ask me to wear the ludicrous deerstalker with which I am now so absurdly associated. And please, call me Sherlock." Sherlock held out a hand as the rapid torrent of words rushed over the newcomers; Wilson took it uncertainly, glancing back at his friend with an eyebrow raised and an expression on his face usually reserved for House himself.

"He means hello," offered John, glowering at Sherlock over Wilson's shoulder.

"Do I?"

"Yes. Try not to be a complete sociopath right away, Sherlock." John turned back to Wilson and House. "I'll show you your rooms now, and I thought we could all have dinner together, in an hour or so –"

"We could?"

" – _yes_, Sherlock. Anyway, as I was saying, this way..."

As John led Wilson out of the room, House stood silently, his face screwed up slightly and a look of concentration in his eyes as he surveyed Sherlock, who had turned back to the window. Then, with a smirk, he called out as he made to follow Wilson.

"Simply spiffing to meet you then, Shirley." Sherlock whipped around, just in time to see House exit the room with a cocky wink and an insolent wave of his cane.


	3. Chapter 3: Scooby Snacks

**Hello, sorry I'm slow updating - I'm a medical student with impeding exams so bear with me! Thanks for all the reviews and reads, much appreciated! There will be more of a plot developing in later chapters, so stick with it! :)**

* * *

"Well, this looks great, John," Wilson said, gesturing to the plate in front to him as John took his place opposite. The four men were sat around the table in the cramped kitchen, the atmosphere one of precise politeness; at least, between John and Wilson. Sherlock sat opposite House, his dark eyes fixed on the figure in front of him, patent mistrust evident in their depths. A slight frown creased his otherwise smooth forehead as he tapped his fingers on the table, scrutinising his counterpart with such attention that his eyes might have been lazers. House leant back in his chair casually, a slight smile playing on the corners of his face; the antithesis of Sherlock's unsmiling concentration. Only his eyes, a clear blue curiously similar to those which were fixed upon him, gave him away: for they, like Sherlock's, were rapt.

"Well thank-you, but I'd reserve judgement until you've tried some!" John smiled graciously.

"Oh God, if you're going to continue like this for the entire evening just shoot me now, John," Sherlock muttered, still not taking his eyes off House.

"Like what?"

"Like... _that._" Sherlock waved a hand idly in John's direction. "All politely self-deprecating. It's annoying." Wilson watched their exchange slightly awkwardly, taking half a glance at House, whose mouth twitched in amusement, still intent on Sherlock.

"So, have you two lived together long?"

"Just over a year now," replied John, before he started and added hurriedly, "But we're not, erm, you know, _together_."

"Sorry?"

"We're not, well... you know, erm, in a – well, in a relationship of any sort."

"Oh, right, OK. I wasn't really suggesting it..." Wilson said bemusedly.

"Oh. It's just that people sometimes – well, they get the wrong end of the stick. Not that's there's anything wrong with it! I mean; well, what I mean to say is, if you two – "

"It's fine, we're not, erm, well, not either." It was now Wilson's turn to flush as he hurriedly replied. House gave a melodramatic gasp, turning to face Wilson with an indignant expression.

"How could you deny our love, Jimmy? I thought we had something... _beautiful_." He fixed Wilson with a doleful gaze; Wilson snorted into his plate. Sherlock looked on in utter disdain.

For some time, hunger took priority over small talk – the two Americans, their only sustenance in the last twelve hours the poor excuse for food that they had been served during the flight, were content to tuck in. Sherlock, meanwhile, merely prodded at his meal, still observing House out of the corner of his eye. Abruptly, he stood up.

"I'm bored."

"Sherlock, come on, sit down."

"I'm bored, John." John looked up at his friend with a slightly pleading expression.

"At least finish your dinner Sherlock, I've gone to the bother of bloody cooking it." Sherlock paused for a moment, before reluctantly sitting down again, grumbling that _Mrs Hudson's cooking is much better_, under his breath. Wilson and House glanced at each other – Wilson looked slightly bewildered, whilst House was smirking. It was eventually Wilson who broke the silence

"So, what is it that you boys do? Are you working at Barts, John?"

"No, no, I actually used to be in the army," John began, ignoring Sherlock's deep sigh of derision, an apparent demonstration of his contempt for small talk, "but I've been locuming at the GPs down the road since I got back from Afganistan – "

"Yes, yes, it's all rather boring," Sherlock interjected, his voice impatient. John raised his eyebrows.

"Actually, Sherlock, this is what normal people do, ask questions and get to know each other –"

"But he does have a point," House cut in, waving a finger across the table. "General practice _is_ really boring. All those icky old people and whining kids with annoying rashes. Where's the fun in that?" He took half a glance at Sherlock, who merely raised an eyebrow, his face impassive. John looked slightly indignant; Wilson shrugged apologetically as he aimed a kick under the table at his less-than-diplomatic colleague.

"What about you, Sherlock? What do you do?" Wilson ventured, in a thinly-veiled attempt at steering the conversation away from a critique of John's choice of speciality. Beside him, John muttered, _here we go_, as Sherlock cocked an eyebrow smugly.

"I," he said certain air of unconvincing casualness, "am the world's only consulting detective." House snorted violently into his glass; Sherlock turned and gave him a cold glare, his mouth twitching in annoyance. "What's so amusing about that?" he demanded.

"To the mystery machine!" House cried, his voice shaking with laughter. Sherlock looked non-plussed.

"It's a TV show. Scooby Doo?" John offered, apparently caught between amusement and irritation.

"I know _that_ John, I'm not an idiot. I just don't see how a cartoon involving a great dane and a frankly ludicrously repetitive storyline line – it's always the hotel manager – has any relevance to my line of work. It's like equating being able to drive a bumper-car and winning an F1 grand prix."

"You mean in real life the baddies don't wear latex masks and dress up as monsters to scare away unsuspecting townsfolk?" House smirked sarcastically. Sherlock scowled in frustration as the American doctor continued to grin across at him antagonistically. Then, with characteristic energy, he leapt up from the table, his chair scraping backwards with a squeal.

"Well, a feel a demonstration is in order," he began, pacing up and down in front of the table. John suppressed as groan: he recognised the unmistakable signs of an impending trademark diatribe from the detective. "You both work for a hospital on the East Coast, New Jersey if I'm right; you're both attending physicians, not surgeons -"

"Well done, we both have American accents and are clearly old enough to have finished our residencies –" House interrupted.

" – actually, you're an oncologist," Sherlock continued, waving a hand in Wilson's direction. House abruptly stopped speaking. "You used to be married – not any more, single at the moment – and you recently bought yourself a new watch. You flew into London Heathrow this afternoon on the Virgin Atlantic, on which you had the tomato soup. You're both in town for the medical conference which is being held at Barts next week, which _you're_ due to be speaking at." He turned to face House. "You're also single, you ride a motorbike and you play the guitar and the piano. You're an exceptionally good doctor but you have little to no bedside manner, and you had a poor relationship with your father. You have an addiction to the pain medication that you're on – not that you'll admit it – and you're quite a heavy drinker too. You pride yourself both on your sharpness and your unorthodox methods, which you sometimes use for no reason other than to irritate your boss – who incidentally you have a bit of a thing for. Oh, and you like writing all your ideas out on a whiteboard." Sherlock finished pacing and drew up his chair, sitting down and serenely placing his fingertips together, more than a little smugly; his American guests sat in stunned silence. Even John, who made it his business to not react when Sherlock came out with such deductions – God knows the last thing Sherlock needed was anything to further boost his ego – couldn't keep himself from looking mildly impressed. Wilson, who simply looked flabbergasted, pointed a finger weakly across the table.

"How – _how_ – the hell did you know all that?" Sherlock merely smiled.

"I don't know, I _observe_. It' simple, really; you see – "

"OK, Sherlock, we get it, you're a genius. You don't need to show off," John interrupted in exasperation.

"How was I showing off?"

"Sherlock, how where you not showing off?"

"Well – "

"Actually, it's a good thing he stopped you there," House interjected, raising his voice to cut through the squabbling. "It's all a bit embarrassing really, see, you've got it all wrong." He shrugged, pulling his face into an expression of exaggerated embarrassment.

"Wrong?" Sherlock frowned, snapping around to glare at House. "I'm never wrong. Everything I said before was correct."

"Close, but no cigar, Sherly. You see, I actually work for the CIA – I'm here on a super-secret mission to assassinate the Queen. If I told you about it I'd have to kill you. Actually, I just did. Ooops." House grimaced in mock regret. "And this guy over here," – he jabbed a thumb in Wilson's direction – "he's really an international porn star. He's here to shoot a new movie – turns out you guys can't get enough of his cute little face." Wilson groaned; the word _House_ was just discernible as he put his head in his hands. For a moment, Sherlock was still. Then he stood up, a look of pure contempt radiating from his sharp features: one normally reserved for the likes of Anderson.

"I am surrounded by imbeciles." Spitting the words out as though they tasted vile, he swept out of the room, scooping up his violin en route. House called after him irreverently: "And I would have gotten away with it too if it weren't for those meddling kids!" He turned to face Wilson. "Well, that went well," he added, his face cracked into a wide, roguish grin. Wilson ran his fingers through his hair, lifting his face and addressing John across the table.

"I'm really sorry, this is... well, this is House. He's obnoxious, rude, and an insufferable smart-arse." Wilson raised his hands in apology, apparently struggling to find the appropriate words. "I, erm... I can't really say any more than that."

"You forgot 'genius' and 'incredibly handsome'"

"_House_."

"It's OK." John, who had merely been watching the exchange in bemused silence, interrupted. "Sherlock just isn't used to having the piss taken out of him quite so explicitly. Normally people are quite impressed by his party trick."

"Well I'm really sorry about that –"

"No, no, it's fine. It'll do him good to have his ego a little bruised." John smiled, a tad wearily, as he stood up and began to clear away the plates. "I'd watch out though – he's not a good enemy to have made."

"Oh, I can handle him," House mused, looking down the hall after the consulting detective. He pulled himself up and limped towards the door, continuing dramatically, "After all, I know his Achilles' heel!"

"Which is?" Wilson asked incredulously, his voice thick with exasperation.

"Scooby Snacks!" House exclaimed as he made down the hall.

John and Wilson looked at one another; a certain mutual understanding passed between them, unspoken yet unmistakable. This was war, plain and simple – and if they weren't careful, they would be caught in the crossfire.


	4. Chapter 4: The game's afoot

**Hey, sorry this has been so slow, exams :( But they're done now, woooo. Thanks to anyone reading this, hope you enjoy this chapter.**

* * *

Sherlock strode into the living room, dressed immaculately – as always – in a crisp shirt and sleek trousers. House was sat at the desk, his feet resting carelessly on a pile of papers by the laptop in a way which was strikingly reminiscent of how he might have been sat in his office in the hospital. He didn't look up as Sherlock entered, but called out cheerfully as he continued to peruse the thick file which was strewn across his lap.

"Goooood morning, Shirley." Sherlock glanced across at him and froze, a deep frown tunnelling across his forehead, apparently torn between his desire to express his annoyance and his reluctance to even acknowledge the other man's existence. With a sigh that was laden with irritation, he made towards the desk.

"Other than being excruciatingly annoying, what are you doing?" Sherlock stopped suddenly, his face like stone. "_Are they case notes_? Where did you get them?" He lunged forward and snatched them from House's lap.

"Well, someone came in asking for Mr Sherlock Holmes, so naturally I decided to pretend to be you; it wasn't all that hard, I just spoke really quickly and occasionally flicked my hair pretentiously –"

" –you loudmouth American juvenile _imbecile_ –"

"- actually, I'm not surprised people think you're clever given the basal intelligence level of your client base, she didn't even notice that I was American –"

"- I told John this was a ridiculous idea, you've ruined this case –"

"- so anyway, I pretended to be you, and she explained to me about her situation. It's not bad, this whole detective business, although I didn't get to do any painful or preposterously dangerous diagnostic tests on her, which are always fun –"

Sherlock began to stride away, not even bothering to toss a contemptuous glance at the doctor behind him, muttering darkly under his breath.

"- and anyway, it's clearly not very difficult - it's pretty obvious that the notes were being left by a jealous ex-lover. She knew that too, she'd just in denial – that's why she didn't go to the police, and she probably just sold the 'stolen' necklace to a pawnbroker herself to add credibility to her story." Sherlock whipped around to face House, his expression suddenly one of interest.

"You got that all by yourself, just now?"

"Well, I had Daphne's help; she's my cane, in case you didn't –"

"Just by talking with her?" Sherlock interrupted, brusquely cutting through House's sarcasm.

"Well, _yes_," House said, less jokingly. "Oh come on, it was hardly difficult. She couldn't have been any more blatant if she'd written across her forehead." Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

"Of course, it was a boring case; I'm sure she was an idiot, most of my clients are. You just have to look, and everything's there – but normal people don't look, they miss things, obvious things, even if they're staring them right in the face. They're _blind_, ordinary people." He paused for a moment, staring intently at House, his blue eyes crackling, his face alight with a certain curiosity. He opened his mouth as if to say something, before stopping suddenly. Apparently changing direction, he continued in a more offhand voice. "But then, it was a boring case. Boring, boring, boring. It hardly means anything." He turned away.

"Shirley, I do this for a living." House smiled and spread his arms wide. "You deal with people – and people are idiots. Diseases, on the other hand, don't think, they _act_. Pathogens don't leave traces like a dim-witted bank-robber does. People are simple: they lie, they make predictable mistakes, they give themselves away. You've got it easy."

"If you're seriously suggesting that what I do is somehow easier than what you spend your time doing, then you're more of an idiot than even I could have imagined." Sherlock said swiftly, his tone contemptuous.

"Oh, so you think playing 'Cluedo' for a living is harder."

"I don't play Cluedo for a living."

"OK, you think being a detective is harder than being a diagnostician?"

"Yes."

"Prove it."

House leant back in his chair and smirked widely, his hands behind his head and his expression one of amusement. Sherlock frowned.

"I'm not wasting my time with infantile games."

"_Anything you can do, I can do better_..." House started singing in a mocking voice. Sherlock's face was a picture of annoyance.

"Well, how do you propose I prove it?"

"A competition, what else?" House leapt up, brandishing his cane like a sword. "The doctor vs the detective; the handsome maverick vs the sociopathic oddball; the revered genius vs the –"

"Fine, a competition," Sherlock interrupted. "But we don't have a case to solve, at least not a real one," he muttered, almost to himself, as he turned away and began to pace.

"But solving crimes is boring anyway. Why not do something a bit more exciting, Shirley?"

"Such as?"

"Well, why not do it in reverse? Instead of trying to help the police work something out, let's try and outwit them." Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"In what way?"

"Jeez, you really are stupid if you need it explained. Let's see which of us can pull off the ballsiest crime – and not get caught for it, of course." Sherlock looked thoughtful; a slow smile began to spread across his gaunt features.

"Yes," he said decisively. "I quite like it. The police are all buffoons, of course, but proving it to Lestrade is always fun. I accept your challenge, House."

At that moment, John entered the room, looking distinctly bleary-eyed. With a mumbled good morning, he made to go into the kitchen; Sherlock called out to stop him.

"John, we've got a case. Come on."

"A case? Sherlock, I need to go to work."

"Don't care."

"Well, what's the case even about, then?" John sighed, irritated but unmistakably resigned. Sherlock paused for a moment, clearly deliberating about what would be the best way to attempt to convince his friend to take part in his law-breaking plot. His dilemma was solved abruptly as House leant across and casually addressed John.

"We're having a competition to see who can break the law in the most daring and audacious way. It'll be much more fun than dealing with snotty noses and whining crinklies with continence problems." John groaned and shook his head disbelievingly, whilst House sat back, looking smug. Sherlock shot him a dark look.

"I would try to explain why that's a really stupid idea, Sherlock, but I've know you long enough to know that I'd be wasting my breath." John shrugged and gave a long-suffering smile. "As fun as it sounds, boys, I think I'll stick with the doctoring for today. It's better paid, and as far as I can tell, I won't be arrested for it."

"John, don't be so boring."

"Sherlock, don't be so annoying." Sherlock waved his hand carelessly and threw John a keen grin: a grin that John had seen many a time before, normally in association with the news of a serial killer on the loose. He began to speak rapidly, his eyes sparkling.

"John, we can argue about this for a while, before you eventually but inevitably concede that you would actually much rather spend the day doing something _interesting_. So why don't we just skip the whole unconvincing argument and get straight to business?"

"I – "

"Right then, let's go." Sherlock clapped his hands together and made to pick up his coat.

"Wait just a minute there, Shirley." House was still sat at the desk.

"_What_?" Sherlock span around, looking irritated.

"Well," House said, pulling himself up and moving towards them. "You two both know London. Wilson and I have never even visited before: so it's not really a fair test, is it?" Sherlock shrugged, looking to John.

"He's right, you know."

"Well, what can we do about it?" John exclaimed.

"Obviously you'll have to go with him."

"What? I –"

"It's OK, Shirley here gets Wilson." House interjected with a wink. "And between you and me, he's a few tacos short of a fiesta platter."

"Someone say my name?" Wilson mumbled sleepily as he entered the room.

"Nope." House said breezily, pointing towards Sherlock. "Now look lively, you've got a date with Shirely here."

"_What_?"

"Yes, _come on_, I'm bored."

"It's like a personal tour of London," House cut in. "Shirley's being terribly generous offering you this little excursion, it would be rude not to go, really."

"Erm, right, fine, OK," a bemused Wilson stuttered as he was guided towards the door by Sherlock, who was now sporting his trademark long black overcoat.

"One last thing!" House suddenly exclaimed after Sherlock's retreating back. "Why don't we add a little something to make this whole thing a bit more interesting?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow in question. "OK, so how about if I win, _you_ have to make my speech at the conference next week?" Sherlock smiled widely.

"Dear me, you're a bit of a masochist, aren't you? Well, if you want to make things worse for yourself... If _I_ win, you have to do John's locum work for the week."

"Sherlock, he can't just do that – " protested John.

"Fine," House interrupted as he leant over to shake Sherlock's hand. "You're on."

"I'm sorry, but can someone _please_ explain what the hell's going on?" Wilson exclaimed, looking utterly bewildered, his chestnut hair tousled and his earnest brown eyes wide with confusion.

"It doesn't matter Wilkins, let's go," Sherlock uttered sharply, practically pushing Wilson through the exit.

"It's Wilson –"

"Don't care. Now move: the game's afoot!" And with an indignant yelp from Wilson, the pair exited the apartment, rather gracelessly.

House looked after them, his forehead creased as a wicked grin seeped across his rather weathered face. The stubbly chin and craggy cheeks gave him a look of a vagrant, yet from behind the tired exterior there was an unmistakable energy; a certain air of roguish unpredictability which churned beneath the surface, bubbling with inimitable sharpness. He turned to his new accomplice and said, with the same reckless abandon and swaggering overconfidence with which liked to address his team at home:

"The game is, indeed, afoot. So let's go kick some limey detective ass!"


	5. Chapter 5: The rules of the game

It was still raining as the pair walked down the street – the tall man on the left striding ahead, his black coat billowing dramatically, whilst his smaller compatriot trotted slightly awkwardly to keep up – although now it was a fine drizzle, as opposed to the bullets of water which had bombarded the pavement earlier. It was dull, grey rain: the sort that tourists complain about in loud, tedious voices, yet Londoners barely even notice. They reached a greasy cafe, the ubiquitous type, which specialise in serving weak, gritty coffee and fry-ups which mercifully taste better than they look.

"Right, in here, this'll do." Sherlock smiled and held the door open for Wilson, the show of manners strangely discordant with the cold rudeness he had displayed earlier. Yet the detective seemed in better form now, Wilson noted; it was as though the prospect of the challenge had bestowed him with a certain kind of energy, a vivacity which radiated from his gaunt frame. Wilson nodded slightly awkwardly in thanks and entered the warmth of the cafe, still feeling rather confused about why he was accompanying the detective, and what they were actually doing. "Move. Go on, sit over there." The pair settled at a small table in the corner.

"Look, I think I missed something at the flat before, I'm still really not sure what's going on –"

"God, you really are slow, aren't you?" Wilson opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock continued without waiting for him to speak. "We're outwitting Lestrade and his motley crew of incompetent half-wits at Scotland Yard, and what's more, we're doing it better than your colleague Dr House is."

"_We_ are?"

"Well, more accurately _I_ am, and you're going to watch in amazement. After all, it wouldn't be as fun without an audience, would it?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "Besides, it's only fair that House and I should both be saddled with a respective idiot. Oh, don't take it personally," he added, in response to Wilson's incredulous glance. "Everyone's an idiot in comparison to me."

"And presumably also ridiculously modest?" Wilson replied, his eyebrows raised; this guy was reminding him more and more of House as every minute passed. Sherlock ignored him.

"I'm also going to set out some rules. I don't want you to speak, I don't want you to act, I don't even want you to breath, not unless I tell you to."

"Sorry, but _what_?" Sherlock sighed deeply.

"I know you think that you help House out with his deductions, and maybe you do – although let's be honest, that's pretty unlikely, given his evidently vastly higher IQ – but that's not how we're going to operate. The last thing I need is an American moron offering his extraneous opinions on my plans."

"Well, maybe I should just leave you to it then? If I'm just a moron, and you're such a super-genius?" Wilson offered as he made to stand up, his tone an odd mixture of offense, incredulity and gentle bewilderment.

"You say that, but we both know you have nothing better to do; besides, you voluntarily spend time with someone like House, which indicates that despite your whining you actually quite like this sort of thing. So, you're going to stay." Sherlock reeled off, his tone bored. Wilson, who was halfway to standing, froze mid-movement, before apparently conceding defeat and returning to his seat; Sherlock smirked smugly.

"So I suppose you have a plan, do you?" Wilson said, sounding both exasperated and slightly sullen.

"Of course I do. I'm Sherlock Holmes. Now, listen carefully..."

* * *

House limped along in the opposite direction, the hem of his trousers trailing through the gaping puddles which bathed the pavements, as he attempted to put some distance between himself and the detective. The sympathetic glances he received from passers-by ("look at him, poor man, struggling along in the wet with his cane") might have irritated him in other circumstances, but for now he was too occupied by the task in hand to care. He walked with a sense of purpose, a hard, driven expression evident on his grey face – it was a look of eager determination, slight obsession even, one which was normally reserved for particularly puzzling cases: the sorts of cases that only House himself could solve. It was the expression of a man captivated, a man absorbed by a perverse sort of passion; it was an expression which, had the shorter man who walked half a pace behind House been able to see properly, would have forcibly reminded him of a certain consulting detective.

"Well, we may as well get out of the rain – does it ever stop? I didn't realise I'd be needing a snorkel." House scowled, with a glance upwards at the steely heavens, as he pushed open the door to a grubby cafe with his cane.

"It's summer, what do you expect?" muttered John wryly as he followed House inside, his lack of enthusiasm for the whole situation evident. "I'm just going to get a coffee, do you want anything?" he added, more out of habitual politeness than any real desire to do the acerbic doctor opposite him a favour. House shook his head, barely glancing behind him as he made his way over to a table by the window.

Five minutes later John went to join him, a cup of coffee in one hand and a muffin in the other; he was acutely aware of the other man's scrutiny as he approached, those pale blue eyes, so reminiscent of Sherlock's, boring into him, _analysing_. He sat down opposite, trying not to feel too uncomfortable despite the growing feeling he had that this man could read him with the same ease as his flatmate could. House immediately confirmed this suspicion as he opened his mouth:

"So, you're an army doctor." It wasn't a question.

"Was," corrected John, although he could sense that it was futile.

"So you're a little bored with life on civvy street, you need a little excitement." John said nothing, deciding that it would probably be best to just leave the American to it. "So, you found yourself a hotshot detective boyfriend –"

"He's _not_ my boyfriend!"

" – and you go around London playing cluedo. Which is obviously just as fun as being blown up in Afghanistan." House grinned wolfishly, deftly reaching across and scooping up John's muffin. Still grinning, he took a large bite.

"Um, I think that was my muffin?" John said, non-plussed.

"Ah-ah-ah!" House exclaimed, waggling a finger in John's direction. "First rule of Team Super-Awesome: you don't complain when I take your food."

"Team Super-Awesome?" John snorted.

"Second Rule: you don't ever question the team name." House pulled an expression of exaggerated seriousness. "And rule three, you're going to take over all responsibilities which are normally performed by my team back home. You have to simultaneously be an annoying Australian rich-boy suck-up, a car-jacking belligerent ganster neurologist and an irritatingly earnest immunologist with an unhealthy preoccupation with medical ethics."

"_Sorry_?"

"Well, that probably would have been funnier if you knew who I was talking about," House conceded. "Basically, you should make ridiculous suggestions which I will largely ignore or ruthlessly shoot down for my own amusement. Don't worry, I'm sure it's a role you'll take to."

"Right." John was beginning to regret his decision to go along with this scheme even more, if that were possible. He ran a hand through his dark blond hair, leaving it tousled with bemusement.

"So," exclaimed House, leaping up and withdrawing a marker pen from a back pocket, "what we really need..." He trailed off, casting an eye around the cafe's dim interior. "Aha! This'll do!" He reached over and plucked up one of the sickly-looking beige trays from another table; with a flourish, he propped it up against the window. Then, with the air of someone who had done it many times before, he wrote in scrawling capitals across the top of the tray: "KICK-ASS CRIMES". John started.

"Should that really be written there, for everyone to see?" he hissed. House waved a hand airily.

"No-one's looking. Now, shoot."

"Shoot?" House groaned, pressing the heel of his hand into his forehead.

"Jeez, I didn't realise it was possible to actually _be_ as gormless as you look. Come on, ideas! I need something to work with, if we're going to beat your boyfriend!"

"He is _not_ –"

"OK, whatever," House interrupted, turning to face the make-shift whiteboard. "Ideas."

"Right, fine," John said, abruptly deciding that the only way to deal with this madman was to join him. "Vandalism?"

"Too small."

"Murder, then?"

"I admire your ambition, but probably a step too far."

"Parking on a double yellow line?"

"Oh, _definitely_ too risky," muttered House sarcastically. He twirled his cane in frustration. "Come on, something impressive, but feasible."

"Theft?" House cocked his head. "You know, something big, not too big, but famous," John added, feeling slightly excited in spite of himself.

"Now," House grinned as he began to scribble on the whiteboard, "we're getting somewhere. Good work, lover-boy."


	6. Chapter 6: Umbrellas

**This chapter was fun to write, hope you enjoy it! Not sure all the characterisation is quite right, but you lot can be the judge of that! **

* * *

"This," said Wilson weakly, running a hand over his chin, "is a mad idea. _Mad_." He shook his head slightly, his expression one of disbelief.

"Actually, it's brilliant. Which is to be expected really, because I'm brilliant." Sherlock smiled smugly, leaping up from the table. "So, let's go."

"Now?"

"Yes, now. Why not?" Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock strode towards the door. Wilson made to follow him, before pausing and swearing, realising that he'd been left with the bill. Definitely a cut off House, Wilson thought cynically, as he threw down a ten pound note and scurried after Sherlock.

Sherlock walked rapidly, an indisputable bounce in his step, his coat collar turned up against the downpour as raindrops bounced off his jutting cheekbones. There was a casual beauty about him, a sort of arrogant handsomeness. Wilson consoled himself that at least he didn't use obtuse metaphors like House did: that would just be one step too far.

"How do you know we aren't going to get caught?" Wilson puffed, voicing a concern which had been growing inside his head all morning, like some sort of tumour. Sherlock laughed, throwing what might have been a pitying look over his shoulder.

"Please, Welton –"

"Wilson."

" – the police are morons. Close-minded, limited, so _simple_: they've no flair, no finesse. Scotland Yard is little more than a menagerie of buffoons. Believe me, you've got no worries, not whilst you're with me, anyway. The police," he continued casually, "don't stand a _chance_." Wilson rolled his eyes at the bravado; yet Sherlock spoke with such confidence that he couldn't help but feel slightly heartened. At least, part of him did – a large part of him still couldn't shake the feeling that the whole affair was a monumentally stupid idea. But then, since when did Wilson ever listen to that part?

They reached Baker Street.

"I need to collect a few items from the flat, you can wait here," Sherlock said abruptly, already half-way through the door. Wilson shrugged, trying to huddle under the shop awning to keep dry. Leaning against the window, he silently watched the traffic as it splashed past. For several minutes, he was content to just stare at the passing black cabs and red buses, watching the shimmering reflections in the puddles on the road. It was some time later – what was Sherlock _doing_ up there? – when Wilson became aware of a certain vehicle. It was a Mercedes, slick and stylish – black, of course – the type of car that somehow manages to be simultaneously inconspicuous yet striking. Wilson wasn't particularly interested in cars (unless you counted Monster Trucks, a strange avenue which House had led him down, somewhat reluctantly, several years before) but he could still appreciate this one's elegance. But what was most noticeable about this car was the frequency with which it was driving past 221B. At first, Wilson thought that perhaps he was imagining it, yet by the fifth time he was sure that it was the same car. And here it was again: it glided around the corner, effortlessly weaving through the heavy London traffic. Wilson watched its progress with a detached sort of intellectual curiosity, an idle interest in what it was doing; yet then it slowed down and indicated, pulling in alongside the shop. Wilson frowned, watching carefully as the black car came to a smooth halt by the pavement, a few feet away from where he was stood. The door opened; first a black umbrella, then a pair of immaculately shiny black brogues, and finally a man, wearing a smart three-piece suit and a smug expression, emerged. And for some reason, he was looking straight at Wilson.

"Ah, Dr Wilson, will you kindly get into the car?" Wilson froze, his stomach lurching tremendously as he looked into the face of the mysterious figure. The man was tall, at least as tall as Sherlock, but more portly – the outline of his belly could just be seen as it strained against his waistcoat – and his short brown hair was receding somewhat, revealing a high forehead. His face was mask-like, calm and inscrutable, as he raised an eyebrow nonchalantly. The pinstriped suit was pristine, crowned by a rich red tie and a thick gold chain that arched from his pocket in a self-satisfied fashion; it was a suit that augured power. His cold eyes were guarded, slightly aloof – but nevertheless remarkably commanding. Indeed, there was a certain air of authority about this man: it was impossible to establish for sure what it was about him, yet he somehow exuded the impression of being dangerously well-connected. Perhaps that was why, despite not knowing who the man was, or how he knew his name, or what he was doing on Baker Street, Wilson stepped forward and clambered into the back of the car.

"How do you know –?"

"You're Dr James Wilson, head of oncology at Princeton Plainsboro Hospital, due to attend the Medical Conference at Barts next week," said the man, anticipating Wilson's question as he followed him into the car, pulling the door shut behind him. With a nod to the driver, the car pulled away. "It's my job to know such things, Dr Wilson." Wilson gulped, suddenly acutely aware of what a stupid thing he had just done. Trying to quell the rising tide of panic which threatened to overwhelm him, he turned to face the other man.

"And who are you?" The man rolled his eyes imperceptibly and took half a glance outside the window, apparently trying to decide whether or not to answer the question.

"I," he sighed, turning back to face Wilson and raising his eyebrows, "am Mycroft Holmes."

"Holmes? As in –"

"Yes," Mycroft smiled sardonically. "_That_ Holmes."

"Oh, so there are _two_ of you? Fucking hell." Wilson groaned as he scrutinised the man, trying to decide whether to believe him. Their faces were different; yet there _was_ something in the eyes that was strangely similar – a calculating intelligence. "Well, approachability clearly runs in the family," he muttered sarcastically. Mycroft ignored him.

"You see, that's why I wanted to speak with you. You seem to be spending a not inconsiderable amount of time with my younger brother."

"Just this morning!" protested Wilson.

"Yes, which by Sherlock's standards is practically a lifetime. Most people would have been ringing the lunatic asylum by now."

"Well, I suppose you could say that I've had practice dealing with someone like him," Wilson sighed. "And besides, so what? Are you his baby-sitter?" Mycroft smiled again, this time slightly sadly.

"I worry about him, Dr Wilson. He's not... well, he's not like ordinary people, my brother."

"Yes, I had sort of noticed."

"He needs... looking after." Mycroft spoke carefully, weighing up his words. "When he's left alone, he gets into trouble." Wilson frowned.

"You talk about him as though he's five years old." Mycroft laughed mirthlessly.

"You have met Sherlock, haven't you? He's nothing but an infant dressed in grown-up clothes." There was a pause, as both men seemed to contemplate his words; the conjured image of Sherlock himself swam between them. Mycroft suddenly leant towards Wilson.

"Where's John?"

"Is that what this is about? Are you worried that Sherlock's got himself a new boyfriend? Had a little tiff with John?" Mycroft scowled.

"I merely wanted to enquire as to where he is, and why he's not with Sherlock."

"Anyway, I thought it was your job to know such things?" Wilson offered, feeling slightly reckless. Mycroft looked away, not entirely managing to hide the annoyance on his face.

"John Waston is good for my brother, which is more than can be said for most people," Mycroft murmured softly. Then, changing tact, he addressed Wilson more directly. "But what are you doing with Sherlock?"

"Doing?" inquired Wilson, deciding that it was best to play innocent.

"Yes, _doing_," Mycroft snapped, his voice losing its smooth quality. "People don't just voluntarily spend time with him."

"Well, maybe I do," Wilson replied, cringing slightly at how childish he sounded.

"And maybe Sherlock's decided to generously offer you a free tour of London, both of which strike me as staggeringly unlikely."

"We were just talking."

"Really."

"Yeah well, he's, um, quite the conversationalist," Wilson continued, aware that he was now certainly pushing his luck. Mycroft leaned forward, fixing Wilson with a cold glare.

"Dr Wilson, whatever my brother may imply, I am _not_ an idiot. I don't know why you're doing it, but I know that you're up to something. And I intend to find out what it is."

"Well, you seem to be pretty good at figuring things out. I wouldn't want to spoil your fun," Wilson responded. He was a little unsure as to why he was defending the eccentric detective, who had been unfailingly rude since their first meeting. Yet there was something about this Mycroft character that put Wilson on edge; besides, it would hardly be wise to reveal what they were planning on doing – Wilson had a sneaking suspicion that Sherlock's scheme would constitute "trouble".

"I'm not asking for much, Dr Wilson. All you need to do is tell me what's going on with yourself and Sherlock. Is that so hard?" Mycroft said soothingly, his fingers wrapped around the handle of the black umbrella which rested against his knees. Wilson glanced out the window – he saw that they were turning back onto Baker's Street. He looked back into Mycroft's expectant face.

"I'm sorry, Mr Holmes, but I'm afraid I can't help you." As if on cue, the car pulled in and stopped outside 221B. Mycroft wore an expression of great distaste as he looked across at Wilson; for a moment, neither man moved.

"Mycroft!" Suddenly, there was an almighty bang on the side of the car. "Mycroft, must you insist on kidnapping _all_ of my colleagues? Let Wilsley out _right_ now!" Mycroft rolled his eyes and opened the car door, swiftly opening his umbrella as he turned to face the tall man who had been knocking on the car window.

"Well, dearest baby brother, if he actually was your colleague you'd know his name is Wilson."

"Close enough."

"Care to tell me what's you're up to?"

"Ummmm... no. No, I don't think so." Sherlock looked at his brother with an expression of intense dislike.

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock –"

"Mycroft, just because you don't know every minute detail of my life, there's no need to go all MI5. It's pathetic, really."

"Where's John? _Sherlock, what are you doing?_"

"Oh, wouldn't you like to know?" Sherlock smirked, pulling his collar up and spinning around. "Come on, Walson." Taking this to mean him, Wilson clambered out of the car and hurried after Sherlock, trying not to look at the fuming figure of Mycroft as he passed.

The pair – Sherlock and Wilson – strode away along Baker Street in the drizzle, leaving Mycroft to irately return to his car. Wilson glanced across at Sherlock, and caught his eye; he couldn't help but smile as Sherlock smirked back at him.

"Don't mind Mycroft, he did the same to John when I first met him."

"Well, you could have warned me you have a brother in the Mafia," Wilson said weakly, still feeling slightly faint.

"He's not in the mafia," Sherlock said, his tone amused.

"The CIA? MI5?"

"No, although on occasion, he _is_ the British Government." Wilson didn't dare ask Sherlock to elaborate, but for some reason he didn't doubt him.

"So what are we doing now?" Sherlock looked forward and smiled hungrily.

"Oh, don't think that the plan has changed on Mycroft's account. If anything, he's given us all the more reason to pull it off."

"So we're still doing it?" Sherlock chuckled darkly.

"Of course."


	7. Chapter 7: Let's roll, Mr Bond

**OK, sorry I haven't updated in so long... I had to actually work out what was going to happen haha. Not sure if I got this one quite right, but you lot can be the judge of that! Great to see people are reading this, any reviews massively appreciated!**

* * *

House hitched his rucksack up onto his shoulder, stepping out of the cab and smiling widely despite the continuing drizzle: he had a plan – a pretty good one at that, if he didn't say so himself – and this fact alone was enough to overcome any qualms he had about the weather. Indeed, he was a man who was at his happiest when he had a plan, a clear strategy for solving whatever puzzle that lay in front of him; there was nothing which made him feel more empty than having no idea how to proceed with a problem. Beside him, John clambered out, his expression one of exasperation as the taxi sped away.

"You know, it's conventional for people to share taxi fares?" he sighed. House merely smirked.

"Well, you know how it is, English money confuses me. I mean, no quarters? What were you guys _thinking_?"

The pair began to walk; as they turned a corner, the imposing form of the British Museum swung into view. The great pillars rose up haughtily, the stone a dark, shining grey in the dull light of the afternoon. On top, the carved roman figures looked serenely out across London, just as they did every day, frozen in time with no care for the trivialities of the humans below. John paused for a moment, looking up into their cold stone eyes: the statues fixed him with disapproving glares. Hurriedly, John jogged forward to catch up with House, trying to shake the feeling that their eyes were following him.

"Are you sure this plan isn't a tad ambitious? I mean, I admire your optimism, but I'm really not keen on getting arrested, and there are quite a few things you haven't explained. Like how exactly do you think we're going to get into the locker room –"

"Some of the vagueness may have been intentional," interrupted House, his tone staunchly unapologetic.

"Are you saying you don't think that you can trust me?" John demanded indignantly.

"Well, not exactly. All will become clear once the plan is underway," House said in a mysterious voice, waving his fingers in John's face in a manner which was presumably meant to be enigmatic. "Besides, you do want to win, don't you?"

They pushed their way through the turnstiles at the entrance and wandered into the museum's atrium. A security guard stepped forward.

"I'm sorry sir, you're going to have to leave that in the baggage store," he grunted, pointing to House's rucksack. On cue, John interrupted.

"Here, I'm a doctor," he said as he flashed his ID card from work. "This gentleman has some very important medication for his mobility problem that he needs to keep with him at all times, so he'll need to keep his bag." He smiled sweetly into the guard's face, who looked slightly flustered.

"Oh, well that's fine of course, very sorry," he mumbled, waving House and John on with an apologetic smile. House and John exchanged relieved smiles.

"I told you, nobody questions when you play the cripple card," House whispered triumphantly.

John wandered over to consult the large map by the information point; conversely, House span around for a moment, before pointing his cane in front of him and giving a loud howl, in imitation of a pointer. John jumped and scuttled over.

"_House_, what are you doing? Shut up, please, people are looking –"

"...Awwoooo – oh good, you got my dog imitation. It's that way, I can see a sign." With that, he bounded forwards, down a corridor past a sign reading, 'Department of _Africa_, _Oceania and the Americas_.'

"So much for not attracting attention," John muttered darkly as he followed, trying to ignore the disconcertingly judgemental stares of the party of schoolchildren as he passed them. He and House made their way down the hushed, winding corridors; John felt a growing sense of anticipation – not nerves, but the same burning sort of excitement that settled somewhere in his gut when he was on a case with Sherlock.

They turned a final corner and were met by another large group of schoolchildren milling around the entrance to the exhibition room. Bright displays and loud, garish posters crowded around the doorway – John recognised them vaguely from the multiple fliers he had been bombarded with over the past weeks. 'AZTEC TREASURES: an exclusive exhibition of ancient artefacts, including the world famous MAXIXCATZIN GOLD SKULL', the posters cried feverishly, the image of the ornate golden skull staring out eerily at the visitors.

"Posters are all over London," House murmured, as though reading John's mind. "It must be some skull." They pushed past the schoolchildren, who were now pointing excitedly at the posters and jabbering in Spanish, and entered the room.

The walls were lined with glass cabinets stuffed with glittering exhibits: chests spilling with gold coins, flamboyantly decorated gold head-dresses, shimmering golden jewellery dripping with bright stones. The air itself seemed to glitter, the reflections of the exhibits bouncing off the walls and illuminating the otherwise dark, imposing wooden panels. In the centre, there was a pedestal which was surrounded by a pretentious velvet rope: atop sat a solid gold skull, the hollows of its eyes dark and sinister in contrast to the dazzling glint of its crown. Byzantine carvings wormed over the cranial vault, intertwining and crossing like writhing snakes. It was somehow simultaneously beautiful and menacing: for a moment, John forgot all about the impending plan, content to marvel at the arresting exhibit. Even House seemed to be impressed, although he couldn't help but make a flippant comment as he strode forward to inspect it closer.

"Jeez, they should hand out sunglasses on the way in. It's a little... shiny." Together, John and House edged up to the rope. "You know, it's really only fair that I'm stealing this, it clearly came from America in the first place. You Brits took it from us; so really, I'm just taking a brave stand against colonialism here," he whispered to John as they leaned closer. John merely shook his head in exasperation, hastily glancing around to check that no-one was listening. House took a sweep of the room. "A security camera in the corner up there, but it's the only one I can see. Only one way out of the room, not ideal but we'll work with it. I think we'll manage it."

"But what now?"

"Well, here comes the part of the plan which I've been a little more... guarded about. It starts with your arm. Roll up your sleeve." House grinned, reaching into his pocket.

"I – what?" House ignored his protests, and rapidly reached forward to plunge the syringe into John's exposed arm. Hastily, he returned the syringe to his pocket before anyone around him saw: indeed, John only barely caught glimpse of it, just managing to yelp out as it pierced his skin.

"Wha – are you... drugging... me?" he began in a livid hiss; yet even as he said it a strange wooliness descended over him, the darkness closing in and swathing his gently like a cotton blanket. His eyes fluttering shut, he fell forwards into the waiting arms of House. Staggering slightly from the weight, House cried out in feigned shock.

"Help! A little help here; my friend's just fainted!" As the schoolchildren goggled, a security guard came rushing towards them.

"Oh God, is he OK? Do you need an ambulance?"

"No, no, don't worry, I'm a doctor. He'll be absolutely fine, he's just fainted; he has a rare condition, it's called, um... Adult fainting syndrome –"

"Um, right of course, well, let me help you."

"Do you have a room I can take him to while I wait for him to come to? A storeroom, or some sort of locker room perhaps?" House enquired innocently.

"Um, sure, there's a staffroom just around the corner, we could bring him there" the guard stammered, reaching under John's arm to support his weight. "Excuse me, coming through –" He and House stumbled out of the room, dragging John rather unceremoniously as they parted the crowds. The young guard waved his ID card at a door, unlocking it and leading them down a corridor marked "Staff Only"; at the end of it, they reached a staffroom.

They entered the room, which was filled on one side with rows of lockers, and on the other by a tiny sofa and kitchette. It bore unmistakable signs of life – from half-empty mugs of cold coffee to random items of clothing hanging over the chairs – but for now fortunately empty. They lay John on the couch.

"Thanks so much, this is great," House gushed. "Is there any chance you could give us a few minutes? I'll stay with him until he comes around – sometimes he gets a little disorientated when he wakes up, I don't want him to alarmed..."

"Well, the shift changeover isn't for twenty minutes, so I could leave you until then, no-one will come in before then. Is he definitely OK, are you sure you don't need anything...?"

"Yes, we'll be fine thanks. If you could just leave, that would be great," House smiled, his cane twitching towards the door. The guard, who seemed rather shaken, was happy to comply – he scrambled to the door and exited like a scared animal. House, checking that he had gone, pulled another syringe from his pocket. Glancing behind him, he injected John.

It was five minutes later when John began to stir. Hurriedly, House gave his shoulders a gentle shake.

"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty." John gave a moan an opened his eyes.

"What happened? Where am I?" He looked up at House, his expression suddenly contracting into anger. "You – you drugged me! What did you give me?!"

"Just a little ketamine, nothing to worry about. I needed you to faint so we could get brought into here. It's the staffroom, as our plan dictated," he added airily.

"You gave me _ketamine_? I could have gone into respiratory failure! I could have just pretended to be ill!"

"Well, it had to be convincing, and I wasn't sure I could rely on you to act it properly. And I needed him to be distracted so that I could swipe this," House grinned, waving the guard's ID card. "Besides, my way was much more fun."

"More fun! You son of a –" But House was no longer listening: he had already stood up and was fiddling with one of the lockers.

"All we need now is to find some spare uniforms," he muttered, running his hands over the lock. Abruptly, he smashed his cane into the door; it remained stubbornly shut.

"Here," John sighed, pulling himself up and walking over. After a moment's consideration, he drove his shoulder into the locker. He stepped back and grimaced slightly, yet with a satisfying clunk, the door swung open. John shot House a rather smug glance.

"Well, I must have loosened it," House said, a tad defensively. Inside the locker, a crumpled uniform had been balled up and left in the corner. House pulled out the black trousers, white shirt and tie, wrinkling his nose. "Don't you have deodorant on this side of the Atlantic? Here, this can be yours."

Five minutes later, John and House were dressed as security guards – John rather reluctantly, given the state of his uniform – and in the possession of one ID card. House glanced at his watch.

"OK, we've got maybe ten minutes until shift change." He turned to face John and began to speak in a absurdly exaggerated English accent. "OK, Mr Bond, it's time to execute the next stage of the plan. The fate of the world rests in your hands."

"I get to be James Bond? Very kind of you."

"Nah you're right, you're way too short. I'll be Bond, you can be... Robin."

"Isn't that Batman's sidekick?"

"Yeah well, I couldn't think of any of Bond's sidekicks. Now, let's roll."


	8. Chapter 8: One skull missing

John cautiously pushed open the door to the CCTV control room, his heart pounding. Inside, he was met by the sight of two guards who were lounging in a pair of swivel chairs, a wall of computer monitors showing grainy images in front of them.

"Oh hey, you're early," said one, turning around to greet him. He paused, frowning slightly."And new?"

"Yeah, just started this week," John said, lying easily. He entered the room and sat down on the spare chair in the corner. For a moment, there was silence. "You know, now I'm here, you can go. If you want to knock off a bit early?" John flashed the pair what he hoped was a winning smile. The two guards glanced at each other.

"If you're sure you don't mind...? Thanks mate, that would be great," gushed one. "Might actually get home on time for once!" Nodding their thanks, they left John alone.

Immediately, John scrambled towards the switchboard and began searching for the camera controlling the Aztec exhibition room. After a tense few moments, he located the screen: camera 37. The monitor showed a jumpy image of the golden room, which was, for now at least, still filled with grainy figures. John glanced at his watch – he had a couple of minutes at the most. His mouth suddenly painfully dry, he leant over to the computer and entered the staff number, which was written on the front of the ID card House had stolen. The computer obstinately demanded a password. John's heart leapt to his mouth, his stomach lurching – yet then he noticed the post-it-note which had been sloppily taped to the edge of the monitor: 'password: secure123'. John smiled in relief, momentarily thinking of Sherlock and grudgingly agreeing with his assertion that 'people are idiots'. The computer accepted the password with a satisfying little bleep, revealing the system review: all cameras recording, data saved to the hard-drive. John reached for the mouse and selected the devices icon; the screen flashed with the status and controls of each camera in the museum. John hovered the mouse over camera 37's icon, acutely aware of the fact that with his next action, he would initiate a crime – not just a little bending of the rules to irritate Lestrade, but a proper, punishable illegality. A rush of adrenaline powered through him, a torrential river which doused his veins, the rapids gushing to his head and making it spin. Then, with little thought for anything other than the thrill of doing something _stupid,_ John Watson clicked on the icon which deactivated camera 37. On one of the screens above him, the black-and-white image of the Aztec room disappeared. His head buzzing, John reached for his phone and punched out a text.

* * *

On the other side of the museum, House's phone beeped: "Camera's out. Go. JW". Smiling to himself, he limped around the corner, straightening his tie nervously as he reached the Aztec exhibition. Dressed in the regulation uniform, he made a passable security guard – although there was undeniably something in his roguish grin and crackling ice-blue eyes that seemed to suggest misbehaviour. Indeed, there was an irrefutable whiff of mutiny radiating from the craggy doctor. He cleared his throat and stepped into the gold-tinted room.

"Sorry everyone, the exhibit is now closed."

"Closed? It's meant to be open until four," a pompous woman with a suspicious blue-rinse protested, her lips pursed pedantically. House suppressed the urge to clobber her over the head with his cane.

"Emergency restoration project. You know how it is, gotta keep the skull nice and shiny."

"But I really am keen to see the skull, I've been looking forward to it –"

"Well, I really think you need to get a hobby then. I mean who actually goes to museums in their spare time? Seriously?" The woman looked affronted, her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline.

"Well really! I'll be reporting this to your superiors, and there _will_ be consequences."

"I highly doubt that," House quipped, guiding her towards the exit. "I'll let you in on a little secret – I don't really work here, this is all part of a daring and audacious robbery."

"There's really no need to be rude," the woman sniffed, turning heel and following the other people who had been in the room out. House was alone. He hastily moved the rope over the entrance, and turned to face the glittering skull; it stared back at him brazenly.

House hobbled over to the skull and shrugged off his rucksack. Reaching inside, he pulled out a scalpel. He grimaced and made a neat incision in his forearm; squeezing blood out of the wound, he smeared the bright crimson liquid across his face, dribbling some down his shirt for good measure. Carefully putting the bloodied blade back into the bag, House stepped towards the glass cabinet in the middle of the room. In one swift movement, he brought his cane smashing into the side of the glass pane.

The glass exploded with a tremendous crash, shards soaring in all directions and littering the floor with scintillating powder. Immediately, the air itself began to scream, a screeching alarm slamming into House and swirling around him, clawing at his ears with its piercing claws. Livid red lights began to flash wildly, mixing with the ear-splitting shriek of the alarm as they bounced off the piles of gold which lined the walls. House reached through the shattered cabinet and carefully extracted the skull, before unceremoniously stuffing it into his rucksack. Slinging it over his shoulder, he limped towards the exit, holding a hand up to his blood-smeared face.

Three security guards came haring around the corner, their expressions ones of the utmost panic at having to actually deal with a theft.

"Fucking hell, what the Jesus fucking Christ is going on? What the fuck happened?" the tallest one bawled, wildly spinning around as he surveyed the smashed display case.

"Oh God, it was horrible," House whimpered, clutching his face. "A man with a balaclava, he came storming in here and punched me, broke into the cabinet and took the skull! I couldn't do anything to stop him, he – he had a gun! I – I think he's broken my nose!"

"Fuck, where did he go?"

"Down that way, down the corridor! After him, he can't have gotten far!" The trio of guards turned and sprinted in the direction that House had waved in. Realising that he only had a few minutes before people would come back to interrogate him, House scrambled towards the exit. He glanced around and, seeing that the coast was clear, he scurried off into the labyrinth-like depths of the museum. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to slow down: running looked suspicious. Keeping his head down in an attempt to shield his bloody face, he limped around yet another corner, the alarms ringing in his ears. Tense minutes followed as he negotiated the maze of corridors, his heart beating a tattoo against his ribcage. Then, the desired fire escape swung into view; House smiled, a wave of relief rushing over him as he hurried over.

As he pushed open the exit, cool air spilled over him. For a moment, House paused, unsure what to do. And then –

"House! Quick, over here!" John Watson hissed, emerging from behind a bin with a look of extreme anxiety pasted across his features. "What happened, did you get it?"

"Hell yes I did!" House whooped, a triumph grin spreading across his face. John's frown softened slightly, but he continued in a tense whisper.

"Great, OK, you need to get that stuff off and you need to wash your face," he murmured, jumping forward to help House tug off the security guard's shirt. "Here, stick it in here with my uniform, we'll have to burn the clothing later," he said, brandishing a black bin bag. House pulled his own clothes back on, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a handkerchief, with which he cleaned the worst of the blood off. John took a step back to survey him. "OK, you look passable."

"More than passable," House exclaimed in mock offense, "I look pretty damn sexy." The tension broke: John looked across at House and burst into laughter.

"Did we _actually_ just do what I think we did?"

"I think we did," House grinned back, his eyes twinkling. "Now come on, let's get as far away from here as possible."


	9. Chapter 9: A van journey

On the other side of London, Sherlock and Wilson were sitting in the back of a cab, for the time being unaware of the chaos which was unfolding at the British Museum. Sherlock fidgeted incessantly, full of the nervous energy which filled him whenever he was occupied with a problem. Wilson shot him an irritated look.

"Would you stop already? You're worse than House."

"Can't help it," Sherlock replied absent-mindedly, glancing out the window. "And I thought we agreed that you'd keep the idiotic comments to a minimum?" They lapsed into silence once again, Sherlock pressing his fingertips together and murmuring under his breath.

"Here will be fine, thanks," Sherlock shouted, rather abruptly, as they turned down a grubby side street which was lined by decaying warehouses, their gaudy plastic-looking signs doing little to make the area look any less dilapidated. "Come on, then." Wilson followed Sherlock out of the taxi, feeling increasingly confused. Sherlock had given him an account of the plan which was sensationalist at best: full of dramatic, sweeping statements about _what_ they were going to do, with little in the way of hard details explaining _how_ they were going to do it. Indeed, Wilson couldn't help but feel that Sherlock was intentionally keeping things from him.

"Um, Sherlock? What are we doing here?" he enquired, only half-expecting a response. Sherlock strode onwards down the road, throwing a look of amusement over his shoulder at the bewilderment of his newly-adopted assistant.

"Here lies the key to our daring plan." With a flourish, he pointed across the street at a garish yellow and green sign: 'QUALITY PET FOODS DEPOT". Wilson blinked at the warehouse.

"Am I missing something here?"

"Evidently," Sherlock smirked. "This way." He led Wilson up to the door, confidently pushing it open and entering the building. It was filled with crates, piles stretching up to the shadowy. On entry, the pair were immediately met by a cry of greeting by a burly man in a green boiler suit.

"Sherlock, how'ya doin'? It's great to see ya."

"Dave, how are you?" Sherlock said smoothly as he extended a hand, which was shook enthusiastically by the man. "Thanks for helping me out."

"No problem guv, not at all. Always glad to help." Sherlock turned to face Wilson.

"This is Dave, I helped him out a few years back with a particularly delicate case."

"Without this guy, I'd be six feet under!" Dave interjected jovially. Wilson opened his mouth to question further, but Sherlock interrupted him.

"Well, enough chit-chat. We've got a schedule to keep to," he said breezily, glancing at his watch.

"Oh righ', fair enough. Van's out the back, here are the keys. The stuff's all inside. I'll get it back alright, yeah?"

"Of course," Sherlock smiled swiftly, grabbing the keys and jerking his head towards the back of the warehouse. "We'll be off then." Wilson hurried along after Sherlock, throwing an awkward nod of goodbye at the man, who merely grinned dimly back.

At the back of the warehouse, a space for several vans in front of a garage door – now, however, only one sat expectantly. As Sherlock unlocked the vehicle and opened the back, Wilson surveyed the logo on its side – 'Quailty Pet Foods ltd' – and turned to see Sherlock emerge with two green boiler suits, identical to the one Dave had been wearing.

"Put this on," Sherlock commanded, already pulling his over his exquisitely tailored trousers; Wilson couldn't help but smirk at the sight, for Sherlock looked strangely awkward in working clothes. Wilson looked down at the boiler suit which had been thrust into his hands.

"Why do –"

"No time. Questions later." Sherlock was already in the front seat of the van, the key in the ignition. "Oh for God's sake, stop looking all confused and get in the van. Are you being intentionally slow?" With the distinct feeling that this was against his better judgement, Wilson climbed in beside the detective. The garage door swung upwards, and Sherlock pressed on the accelerator: the van rolled forwards and, with a squeal of tyres, they were driving away.

For a few moments, they remained silent; Wilson looked across and noted the look of supreme smugness on Sherlock's face, an expression which was not unlike the one House wore when he knew he was being clever. Out of reluctance to give Sherlock any satisfaction, Wilson tried not to say anything – yet his curiosity was too great, and he couldn't help but blurt out.

"So, what's going on? What's with the van and the boiler suits?" Sherlock grinned.

"Anyone can walk in anywhere if they chose the right moment," he said cryptically. "Getting in somewhere doesn't have to mean breaking in – the key is to look like, to _act_ like, you're meant to be there. If you're confident enough, no-one will challenge you; and if they do, all you have to do is lie convincingly enough. Don't worry, I'll handle the lying – You're clearly not very good at it."

"What makes you say that?" Wilson demanded, a tad indignantly.

"Look at you, it's obvious. Oncologist, long-suffering friend and protector of House, likes to see the best in people, constantly weighed down by your conscience: you're too earnest by half to be a credible lair. I bet House can always tell when you're lying," he added casually.

"OK, fine, I'm not a good liar," Wilson sighed, his irritation rising. "But you really think a pair of jump-suits and a van will get us in?"

"Even the most protected of places aren't self-sufficient – supplies go in, deliveries come out. They're expecting a delivery of dog food in an hour and a half's time, so all we need to do is pose as the delivery boys."

"But won't we need special security clearance?"

"We look the part, so as long as we act the part, we'll get in. And then the plan continues," Sherlock stated, with a supremely unconcerned tone of voice. Wilson bit his lip: he had thought House was arrogant.

"You're pretty confident, aren't you?"

"Why wouldn't I be? Apparently I'm a genius." Sherlock chuckled, his deep laugh adding an inkling of warmth to the cold persona. There was another period of silence; Wilson scrutinised the detective, drinking in the arrogant half-smile, the cool self-assurance painted across his angular features.

"You get a kick out of it, don't you?"

"Out of what?"

"Out of being the smartest guy in the room. That's why you do all your deductions, the way you said all that stuff yesterday about us like you knew us already. You love it when people get annoyed at you, or call you a freak, because it's evidence that you're different. You know it's because they're jealous." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I suppose you think you're being terribly astute here?" Wilson ploughed on regardless.

"And that's why you're doing this stupid game, why you're taking it so seriously – you're scared that maybe House is smarter than you. Maybe you're not the smartest anymore." Wilson smiled, jabbing an accusing finger towards the driver's seat, the same shrewd expression on his face as when he confronted House about one of his hay-wired plans. He grinned in satisfaction at Sherlock's expression of disdain.

"That's rubbish," Sherlock replied tersely.

"No, it's not."

"It is."

"See, you're all angry now."

"No, I'm not."

"You and House really aren't so different, you know. The longer I'm with you, the more you remind me of him. You both love showing off, you can't stand the idea of being wrong, you're both _incredibly_ annoying, you have little care for anyone else's feelings, you act as though everyone else is an imbecile –"

"– Well that's because they _are –_"

"– but you cling on to this idea of being _right_, because as long as you can solve the puzzle, nothing else really matters. You're like his long-lost, less witty, British twin or something." Sherlock's gaze flickered over to rest on Wilson; his eyes crackled, their unearthly depths flashing with an arcane mixture of emotions – stubbornness, annoyance, contempt. Yet was Wilson imagining it, or did they soften infinitesimally?

"And perhaps you're just a little bit like John," he said eventually, his voice deadpan. But his mouth twitched. "Although for the record, I'm still _much_ smarter than House. After all, he doesn't know about the 'secret' new girlfriend yet." Wilson's jaw dropped, his mouth forming a comical 'o' of amazement; yet before he could gasp a reply, the imposing form of their target swung into view. Sherlock's face snapped to the front, a look of concentration suddenly clear on his face; both men immediately focussed on the task ahead.

And so they drove on, the majestic outline of Buckingham Palace looming ever closer.


	10. Chapter 10: The best of Scotland Yard

"I think – we can – stop – running now," he gasped, grimacing as he reached down to rub his leg. "We've got to be a couple of miles away now."

"Just because you're tired."

"We can't all be ex-military. _Some_ of us are poor cripples," he whined. John smiled thinly despite his anxiety.

"Fine then, we can walk for a bit. Just try not to attract attention."

"Could be difficult. I'm kind of a big deal, after all."

The pair walked through twisting streets, with no real sense of direction or focus – all that mattered was putting distance between themselves and the ringing alarm bells of the British museum. At the bottom of House's rucksack, the skull burned: as incriminating as a bloodied knife or a finger-print plastered gun. John couldn't help but glance around uneasily at every corner they came to; the adrenaline still pounded through his veins, but it was mixed with fear, and a terrible feeling of rising panic. House seemed unperturbed, still grinning like a madman as he limped along with a hint of swagger.

"What are we going to do with it, then?"

"What?"

"Well, we can hardly carry it around with us. And I know airport security isn't always the best, but I think they might notice if you try and smuggle it home in your hand-luggage. Has it got any fingerprints on it?"

"No, I wore gloves; I'm not a _moron_," House sighed derisively, rolling his eyes. "But you're right, we need to get rid of it." He broke off, frowning slightly as he gazed around at the concrete apartment blocks as though searching for inspiration. "Somewhere it'll be found, but not traced back to us..." John caught a glimpse of the expression on House's face – the faraway look in his eyes that denoted that he was working on a problem – and decided that it was probably best not to interrupt him with ideas which would inevitably be shot down as idiotic.

It was as they turned another corner that they heard it – the slow, terrible wail of a police siren. John's stomach dropped, lurching in time with the distinctive screech as it dipped and climbed through the grey London air. House glanced across at him.

"It's fine, there are hundreds of police cars in London. It's not coming after us," he said, the breezy tone not entirely masking the note of concern that crept into his voice. The siren grew louder.

"It's getting closer."

"Still doesn't mean it's after us." They quickened their pace, the siren doggedly pursuing them as they turned down another street.

The police car came screeching around the corner, bathing them in jolting blue light as the air split with its howl. John felt every muscle in his body tense – _it's going to just drive past, it's going to just drive past, look now it's almost gone past us, it's going to just... _

The car squealed to an abrupt halt by the pavement ten metres in front of them. John just caught the profile of the driver as he turned the siren off and opened the car door: the silver hair, the black coat, the weary lined face...

"Oh _shit_..." he groaned to himself, as Detective Inspector Lestrade stepped out of the car and strode towards them. The DI was looking frazzled – as he did more often than not – his coat collar turned up and his hair sticking out at an angle that might have looked comical if it wasn't for the grim look in his deep brown eyes. Behind him, Sergeant Sally Donovan stepped out of the car, an expression of distaste flashing across her unforgiving features as she caught sight of John. Lestrade, on the other hand, broke into a relieved smile as he addressed the ex-army doctor.

"John, thank God, we were just on our way to Baker Street now. There's been a break in at the British Museum, absolute fucking nightmare. I've been trying to get hold of Sherlock, I think he should have a look, but he's not answering his bloody phone –"

"He's not at Baker Street anyway. Besides, simple break-in, Sherlock won't look at it," John managed to croak, as he tried to arrange his features into something other than an expression of guilt. The sheer absurdity of the situation, mixed with the relief that flooded his stomach when he realised that he wasn't being treated as a suspect, almost made him want to laugh; he bit his tongue.

"I know, but he's not had a case in a while and I thought he might want to get out of the house. Besides, it's hardly a simple break-in, it's the British bloody Museum!" Lestrade exclaimed. He blinked suddenly and peered at John. "Hang on a sec, where _is_ Sherlock? If he's not at Baker Street and he's not with you –"

"We're not Siamese twins, you know! We do occasionally part company," John retorted hotly, his ears turning pink. From behind Lestrade's back, Donovan smirked slightly.

"Could have fooled us. I always assumed you accompanied the freak on toilet breaks –"

"What the hell are you implying?!" John started fiercely, but Lestrade cut through him.

"Enough, Donovan!" He sighed, with the weary tone of a schoolteacher separating two squabbling toddlers. "I don't have time for your snide little comments today. And I told you not to call him that."

"For what it's worth, I'm pretty sure they're a couple too. You should see their matching pyjamas." House, who had until this point remained mercifully silent, piped up; John raised a hand despairingly to his face. Lestrade, who seemed to have only just noticed the American doctor, started slightly and squinted into his face.

"OK, who are you then? What are you doing with John?" He said suspiciously, looking House up and down. House opened his mouth to reply, but John hastily interrupted.

"So I'm not allowed to have other friends? This is Dr House, he's staying at Baker Street. In London for a medical conference. I was just showing him around." Lestrade looked rather sceptical as House held out his hand in a surprising show of manners. As he took it distractedly, House leant in closer.

"So you're Lestrade? Are you as incompetent as I've been led to believe?" Lestrade snatched his hand away, a look of incredulity on his face. House continued in a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm actually with the CIA. Don't worry, I'm already on the case – I already have a pretty good idea who broke in."

"What the –"

"Sorry, he's just joking – please – ignore that," John implored, shooting House a despairing glare. Lestrade turned to face John, his expression one of sheer disbelief.

"Bloody hell, do you specialise in befriending obnoxious people?"

"Apparently," John muttered.

"Clearly you have a bit of a thing for freaks," Donovan added snidely. This time, Lestrade did not admonish her. Sighing heavily, he looked rather pleadingly to John.

"Look, do you have any idea where I could find Sherlock?"

"I'm afraid not, no. Just keep trying his phone?"

"Right, well I will do. And if you see him, tell him there's a case if he wants it." Lestrade nodded a terse goodbye, before turning back towards the car. Donovan lingered for a moment, offering John a look which might have been pity, and House one of uttermost contempt – to which he waved back cheerily – before she hurried after Lestrade.

"You know, we can handle this without the freak."

"Oh right, like all the other cases we could 'handle on our own'".

"Strange how you can't contact him though? You never know, he might even be involved," Donovan continued, only half-sarcastically, as she climbed into the passenger seat.

"Oh shut-up, Donovan." Lestrade irately slammed the door shut.

As the police car pulled away – lights flashing – John rounded on House.

"What the hell? Is it your goal in life to piss off every other human-being on the planet? He's a _policeman_!" But House wasn't listening: he gazed after the police car with a strange, distant expression.

"Maybe he's involved..." he muttered vaguely. Suddenly he snapped to face John, a grin spreading across his face. "John, I know what to do with the skull."


End file.
